


And Even Lights Can Fade Away...

by KilltheDJ



Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys - My Chemical Romance (Album), My Chemical Romance
Genre: Author Is Sleep Deprived, Blanket Permission, Hopeful Ending, Memory Loss, at least i ended it the way i did, oh no, the original was a lot worse and then i was in a fluff mood, this was, this was not meant to be this long..., whatever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-10-24 13:54:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20707109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KilltheDJ/pseuds/KilltheDJ
Summary: A flash of passion across a silent Desert.A glimpse of fiery red hair, words like revolution, a trickling paroxysm of fanaticism, a tempting smile, a mania for insurrection.Party Poison.A glimpse, a flash, a secret - and gone. No life to breathe across the barren sand._Or, Fun Ghoul finds a killjoy he hasn't seen in a year-and-a-half, but the way things turn out, he doesn't know how to react. Not with the killjoy he spent a year side-by-side not remembering him in the slightest.





	And Even Lights Can Fade Away...

**Author's Note:**

> i called him poison in this instead of party. i mightve slipped up somewhere, oh well, it is what it is. it Made It Better, i think.

The Desert - more like a broken radio, ever since Party Poison disappeared.

At least, that was how Fun Ghoul saw it. Being born in the sand-filled wasteland and all, he saw stars rise and fall. Not just the stars in the sky, either. 

Poison turned the volume up on this broken radio. He cleared out the static, made sure no soul could stand any idleness being left around; he made sure every killjoy kept their mask on, kept their spirit high. 

With every command, a rebellion sparked under his touch. Ghoul would admit it; he’d never seen anyone single-handedly start so many riots and firefights. 

Maybe Ghoul was partial. He was as captivated as the rest of the Desert - Poison was filled to the brim with a signature biting fervor. It was impossible to tear your gaze away, he made sure of it.

And Ghoul knew it’d never last, of course it wouldn’t. Boys like Party Poison came around once a century; they never lasted.

Still, Poison left devastation in his wake, the revolution previously in the Desert bled into Poison’s veins leaving the sun-scathed wasteland high and dry when the news made its rounds.

When Poison disappeared, he tore down the empire he built, and he didn’t even know it.

Ghoul watched on as the Desert died without Poison. He watched firefights and riots dwindle - was that a bad thing? He watched himself in the mirror, lost without a cause, just another victim Poison left behind.

He and Poison were friends, if Poison would consider it that. Ghoul was the one to show Poison how the Zones worked, as Poison learned he could remake himself how he saw fit.

Poison may have become the star of the rebellion, but he never left the bombmaker who saved his life. He gave Ghoul the same treatment as everyone, though - a wink and a kiss, a game, always a game with him.

A year-and-a-half. Poison was gone for a year-and-a-half.

_

Ghoul found himself walking back to the Diner he called home, back from a Market trip he hadn’t wanted to go to but realistically needed too (so apparently it wasn’t healthy to live without hygiene, but whatever), when he first saw the shock of cherry red against dull sand beige.

That color, that color was burned into his head. Had been for, what, a year-and-a-half now? It was the crimson reserved for one killjoy, and one killjoy only - 

No one was stupid enough to dye their hair Party Red.

Nevertheless, he squinted at the streak of red, to make sure it wasn’t another heat-infused hallucination. The red didn’t go away, though. The more he looked, the more he was certain it was a person in the distance, wandering. 

Party Poison or not, Ghoul wasn’t going to let anyone wander around in this heat. It was at dangerous temperatures when the sun was up as high as it was - and, well… Maybe he wanted to see if it really was Party Poison.

Ghoul missed that shock of red hair just as much as anyone, okay? Just as much as the next ‘joy.

That was why he was running. It was hot out, he wanted to see if his mind was tricking him again, and he wanted to be able to get into the shade and cooler temperatures of the Diner as quickly as possible. Not because he was desperately hoping he did find Party Poison.

The closer and closer he got, the more he was convinced it was the boy with the cherry red hair. The wind was against him so he couldn’t see very well, but he could see the decently tall frame, the strangely pale skin (Ghoul used to joke that Poison wore permanent sunscreen or was, in fact, cursed by the Witch to never have a tan).

It was when he was close enough to make out the button nose that he really was convinced - it was Poison, oh Destroya, Poison was back!

Ghoul was grinning, the breath knocked out of his lungs and it wasn’t just because of the heat he was running in. It really was Poison!

He didn’t stop to think about what he was doing, he would recognize Poison anywhere (he had no doubt this was Poison, it was Poison!), Poison knew damn well what he did to people - and when he reached Poison, he didn’t bother stopping.

Tackled in a hug, he didn’t care how hot the sand must be or how Poison certainly wasn’t expecting it, but it was Poison and he was familiar and Destroya, Destroya Ghoul missed him. The Desert wasn’t the same without him, he gave purpose and he gave magic and Ghoul was never going to let him go again.

Ghoul broke off only slightly, just so he could see Poison’s face. The familiar hazel eyes Ghoul oh-so missed.

Poison opened his mouth to say something, but, of course, that was when Ghoul made a rash, impulsive decision, but, by the Witch, he didn’t care - 

“I’m not missing my chance again,” Ghoul mumbled against Poison’s lips, grinning like an idiot - pulling back before Poison had a chance to react.

It felt like Poison. His lips tasted the same, if a bit less dirty, the same damn eyes, it felt like Party.

And, lying there in the sand, flushed with heat and flushed with joy, Ghoul realized...he realized this wasn’t Poison, this wasn’t the Poison he knew, and he could see it by the lack of recognition, the bewilderment.

The too-short hair, no roots exposed. The lack of the iconic blue jacket. No dog tags around his neck. The lost eyes. The missing yellow mask, nowhere in sight. No cocky comeback, no attitude, no smirk.

It was Poison, but it wasn’t, it really wasn’t.

Ghoul scrambled back onto his feet, trying his best to not hyperventilate. This wasn't Poison. What did they do to Poison? What happened to the Poison that Ghoul knew?

“I don’t - I don’t remem - “ Poison started, voice quiet and small - sympathetic, but there was nothing he could do, was there?

Ghoul grit his teeth and shrugged, trying to play it off. It was impossible to play it off, he knew, but by Destroya, he was going to try. “You don’t remember. I can tell. What brings you out to Zone Four, then?”

Poison shook the sand out of his hair. The red was too bright, too clean and too short to feel like the revolution icon it was supposed to be. A cheap copy with only a vague reference. Pulling himself back to his feet as well, he said, “I’m looking for - I’m just trying to find my brother. Do you know him?”

“You have a brother?” Ghoul asked, perplexed. Well, he was going to hide the hurt bouncing around inside his heart with inquiries; at least he wasn’t pretending. He didn’t know Poison had a brother. 

Poison nodded, brushing that damn hair out of his eyes. “Yeah. My little brother. He’s - tall, lanky, I guess. I can’t say his name. I don’t really - I don’t know how to describe him. He’s just my brother.”

Silent for only a moment, Ghoul squeezed his eyes shut. Alright. Maybe Poison didn’t remember him. But he remembered someone, and that someone was a brother Ghoul had never heard of before. 

Poison remembering someone was a start, though. The rational part of Ghoul’s brain told him that rehabilitation could and had a tendency to be permanent. The other, the emotional side of his brain, told him Poison was the strongest-willed person he’d ever met, if anyone could get past rehabilitation programming it was Poison. He had gone through rehabilitation, right? That was why he didn’t remember?

It had to be. Ghoul wasn’t easy to forget, or at least he’d like to think he wasn’t easy to forget. And Poison never went anywhere without his jacket and his mask (which should’ve been the first hints). 

“I can radio around,” Ghoul said, keeping his eyes shut, voice neutral. Poison’s lack of memory didn’t bother him, no it didn’t. Neither did the fact that Poison was looking for someone Ghoul had never heard of and not him, specifically. “You have to describe him more, though.”

Poison gave a huff, a frustrated huff. “I’m trying! He was a - a - what do you call them? He liked to race. On a motorbike. Don’t you have names for those people?”

“A motorbaby?” Part of Ghoul was amused; Poison was always the worst at having every other word he spoke some sort of slang term. Most of Ghoul was still struggling to process that the Poison he knew was gone, had no memory of him and no feelings saved for him. “If he’s out in the Desert, ‘n a motorbaby, then he’s gonna be one of two places - the Roulette Races, or the Crash Track.”

A memory was tickling Ghoul’s brain, one he couldn’t quite recall, but couldn’t quite forget. It felt relevant. An old friend of his, he’d found him at...one of the races, he thought, and his friend was ranting about someone, about someone wearing a familiar jacket, a jacket he wasn’t supposed to have.

It clicked, and Ghoul’s eyes lit up, cutting off Poison before he could even open his mouth - he knew why it felt important!

“The Crash Track!” Ghoul grinned, “That’s where your brother is! And he has your jacket!”

Mr. Sandman was the old friend who’d ranted to him, and he’d been ranting about a fellow motorbaby, a blondie by an odd name Ghoul didn’t remember, and he was ranting about how that motorbaby was wearing a jacket he shouldn’t have - never said whose jacket or why they shouldn’t have it, but Ghoul had an inkling.

Poison didn’t have his jacket. Someone had to, right? Maybe it wasn’t BL/Ind, for the first time in his Witchforsaken life. Or maybe it was blind hope to think he could help Poison, again, after all this time and still hold on to him like Ghoul actually meant something to the amnesiac.

Poison nodded, slowly, a blank confusion creeping over his face - maybe it had already been there and Ghoul hadn’t noticed, too preoccupied in his own memories. The memories that Ghoul had with Poison, the memories Poison didn’t and would never remember. “The Crash Track? Where’s that? When can we go?”

Always a goal. This time it wasn’t saving the world, it wasn’t liberating an entire city from an oppressive reign, it was finding his brother. Always a goal, but now there was no game, and Ghoul didn’t quite how how to deal with that. He shrugged. “It’s in Zone 6, hour, maybe hour-’n-a-half drive depending on the circumstance. I might know his frequency. It’s too hot out to be driving. For me, anyway. He can come down here.”

“Frequency?” Poison asked with a raised brow.

Ghoul bit back a bitter huff. Poison really didn’t remember anything, did he…? “Yeah. Radio frequency. I just - the Diner is a short walk away. We’ll wait out there, okay?”

“Fine,” Poison drawled. Ghoul couldn’t place why for a second, and then that memory rushed back to him - Poison always started to drawl when he was flirting, or when he was frustrated and didn’t know how to express it. Frustrated about having to wait - sounded like the Poison that Ghoul was familiar with. 

Ghoul didn’t give him an answer; instead, he led him to the Diner, taking the silence as a means to sort through the wreck in his own head. He just kissed a boy who didn’t remember him - a boy he didn’t even think he was pastel for. Certainly couldn’t be now, when Poison wasn’t himself and never would be. Poison was searching for his brother now, there was no reason to keep Ghoul around once he accomplished his goal.

Maybe Ghoul wished Poison was still looking for that impossible liberation of the City. Then Ghoul would at least have a reason to stick around.

Not that he needed one, of course.

Back at the old Diner, a few of the front windows blown out and more sand than floor tiles within, Ghoul told Party to wait one of the bar stools while Ghoul dug around back for his walkie talkie. 

It was somewhere in his mess of things in the broom closet, he knew. That’s where he kept all the things he pretended he didn’t need but would be absolutely horrified if he lost. 

He shoved away that ratty old blanket of Poison’s he kept, the stupid fingerless gloves Poison could never part with, the paints haphazardly closed and sealed on the floor, the patches of Ghoul’s own logo he liked to sew onto things when he was bored, the torn and creased posters Poison had painted all that time ago. Underneath all that, there it was, sitting dusty and unused, because Ghoul had basically gone off the grid after the Desert’s resident hurricane left.

He held it up triumphantly, grinning, going to ignore all of Poison’s things he’d turned over and hadn’t gotten around to getting rid of. Yeah, that was it.

“Y’know,” Ghoul heard behind him, startling him into almost dropping the found item. It was Poison, leaning against one of the Diner’s grimy old walls. “I don’t know what we uh, how we used to know each other, but...You look cute like that. I see why I liked you.”  
“Yeah, I wish that were true,” Ghoul sighed. Poison always played a game; he never really liked him, he knew that. It was just how Poison was - a part of him wanted to laugh. He almost said ‘and that was the way Poison would always be’. Things changed, people changed. 

Poison frowned, but Ghoul wasn’t paying much attention to him. Instead, he spent his time fiddling with the radio, trying to find Agent Cherri Cola’s frequency. Something in the 60’s, he thought. 

61.8, that was it!

“Agent Cherri Cola?” Ghoul asked, pushing down on the button on the side of the walkie talkie. “You there?”

He got static for a minute, but didn’t give up. Sometimes it took a bit of time for signals to go through, and Cherri had a shack to run on top of deal with the problem of most Zonedwellers. You had a problem, you went to Agent Cherri Cola for it. 

“Who is it?” The voice coming through was staticky, but undoubtedly Cherri. He had a voice you would know anywhere, if only because it was one of those rare sounds that travelled through air waves without ever losing whatever emotion he was portraying. 

“Fun Ghoul,” Ghoul answered, biting back another sigh. Cherri knew everyone at the Crash Track, of course he would know who Ghoul was talking about, but what all did Cherri know? Did he know about the jacket and who had it? Should Ghoul just assume The Phoenix Witch would always tell Cherri exactly what someone needed to know (because that was what it felt like sometimes). “And, uh, I’m looking for someone.”

“Gonna have to be more specific than that, Raven,” Cherri snorted, and Ghoul could identify the sound even over radio waves.

Ghoul bristled, but said nothing of the nickname. He hated being called a Raven - his black hair was to honor someone, it wasn’t a signal to BLI and he certainly didn’t attract bad luck. Or maybe he did, and Cherri was right, like he always was. “Someone Mr. Sandman knows. Said he had a jacket he wasn’t supposed to have, didn’t say which one but I think it was Poison’s jacket. That guy, you have a name?”

The silence lasted longer than it should’ve. Ghoul almost thought Cherri had left and wasn’t going to answer before his voice crackled across the Diner through the little device, a whisper. “What do you know about that?”

Ghoul took a breath. This was going to be a bombshell for Cherri, having been a close friend to Poison as well as Ghoul had. A bombshell dropped by a bombmaker; it seemed to fit. How was he supposed to word this? “Because I’ve got a killjoy with crimson hair next’a me lookin’ for his brother. It’s him, Cherri, it really is.”

“...Poison’s back?” Cherri mumbled; Ghoul barely heard. Cherri seemed as shocked as Ghoul expected - then, louder, more excited, “The Desert’s crash queen is back! Oh my Destroya! I have to tell Kobra!”

Making a mental note of the name, Ghoul shouted “Wait!” before he could lose Cherri’s attention. “He doesn’t - uh, he doesn’t remember being in the Desert. He doesn’t remember...he doesn’t remember me. Or you. But he’s lookin’ for his brother, he told me.”

Ghoul waited, and waited, but he didn’t get any answer, so he continued. “So, you know who his brother is? All Pois’ really knows is that he’s got one lanky motorbaby for a ‘joy, so I thought you’d know.”

“Kobra Kid,” Cherri said immediately to that, certain and sure. “His name’s the Kobra Kid. Best motorbaby in the Desert next to Mr. Sandman. He was wearing that jacket the other day, I told him it was best to not let anyone know he had that. Thought it was best to leave the masses wonderin’ if the jacket - and him - really were lost.”

“Can he come down to Zone 4?” It was probably in Kobra’s best interest, anyway, and hopefully he wanted to see his brother. Poison remembered Kobra, which was more than Poison could say about Ghoul.

Part of Ghoul resented Kobra already. A kid he’d never met was the one Poison remembered, not him. A kid who probably knew Poison better than Ghoul ever would. His stomach twisted into a knot just thinking about it. 

Presumably, Cherri nodded (he had a habit of doing that), before realizing Ghoul couldn’t see that and saying, a bit startled - “Er - yeah. I’ll take to him. Tell you later when, and if, he’s gonna be there. The Diner, right?”

“Yeah. You don’t forgot about it now.”

“How could I forget?” Cherri scoffed. “It’s Party Poison, back from the dead! And the Kobra Kid, the best up-and-coming motorbaby we’ve seen in years, his brother? It’s a tragedy in the making already, Raven. No one will forget it.”

Without answering Cherri and his ramblings, Ghoul shoved the radio into his jeans pocket. What was it with Cherri and finding symbolism in everything and predicting the future?

A small voice in his head said Cherri was right. Poison was a force of nature in his own right, and so far his story was already a tragedy. Was Kobra like Poison was, a force of nature? Was Kobra’s story a tragedy too? And how much worse would it be with them together? 

“Cherri knows him,” Ghoul told Party, neglecting to acknowledge what Cherri said nor what Poison had clearly already heard. It was useless to say, since, again, Poison already knew, but the sudden silence was unnerving and Ghoul did not appreciate it in the slightest. 

“The Kobra Kid, huh?” Poison mumbled to himself, almost amusement dancing on his tone. It didn’t match what was in his eyes, a mixture of hope and curiosity and - and hurt. Why did he feel hurt? Was it something Ghoul did, or was it something about his brother?

Ghoul shrugged, kept his tone light-hearted, a distraction if anything. “Guess so. What’d’ya think about it?”

Always a distraction, and always for Poison.

“I think…” Poison started, trailing off to articulate his thoughts. So different from the Poison who always had the right words to start a revolution. Who was Poison, if he wasn’t the hurricane and -

And Ghoul’s cherry bomb? 

“I think it suits him. Maybe he finally found where he belongs,” Poison finished with a sigh. There was more to it, and Ghoul could see it, but he wasn’t going to pry.

The unspoken ‘where he belongs, without me’ sat heavy between them - Ghoul messing with his fingers, craving something to do, somewhere to go. But neither of them moved, standing in the slightly cramped hallway, bad lighting and lost memories holding the silence down, down. 

Ghoul snapped out of it first, blinking, mumbling something about having to work on something in the garage, sliding past Poison and making sure to stay a few feet away. 

He didn’t want to face a Poison who didn’t know who he was. He didn’t want to face a Poison that would leave him without a second thought, one with no memories of the bombmaker who always stood by his side until he disappeared. 

Even going out to the garage was a slap in the face for Ghoul. The vehicle under the half-torn blue tarps wasn’t his, the spray paint too meticulous, too well-cared for. The car he’d found lost in Zone 1, abandoned.

Poison’s precious Trans Am.

Ghoul busied himself with his latest project at his work bench, neglecting the Trans Am like he had for a year-and-a-half. Ignore it, and it would go away, and maybe it was a bad dream, and maybe he would wake up in a cold sweat like he always did when he had a nightmare, and Poison would be there asking if he was okay, and he’d explain, and Poison would whisper assurances that he would never go anywhere, he wouldn’t disappear, that Ghoul didn’t need to worry about that.

Then again, how many times did Ghoul wish that in the last year? How many times did he realize that wouldn’t happen?

It was better to focus on what he was doing. The glass shard bomb he was building for a ‘joy out in Zone 6, some strange kid with a purple lab coat who was paying a hefty sum for it. Dr. Something-or-other, a friend of Mr. Sandman’s. 

He needed to finish it, anyway, or he wasn’t getting paid. Poison and his amnesia could wait, couldn’t they? 

“What’s that?”

The answer was no. The answer would always be no. 

Ghoul startled, dropping a few of the mirror shards he’d been working with, catching them right before they hit the ground and gaining a shallow cut in his palm. With a slight wince, he stared up at Poison, to see what he was talking about.

Poison wasn’t looking in Ghoul’s direction in the slightest. He was looking at the tarps, trying to see what was underneath it. Of course he was. He repeated himself, gesturing vaguely. “What’s that?”

Ghoul didn’t bother hiding his sigh this time. “That’s yours. It was one of your favorite things, y’know? Wouldn’t let me near it. Learned mechanics just so you could fix ‘er engine.”

“Can I…?” Poison asked, nodding slowly and pointing at the edge of the tarp. At least Ghoul knew Poison still had the same taste in things. That car had been Poison’s pride and joy, his ever-evolving masterpiece, every single thought poured from his mind to his paintbrush or spray paint can to the exterior of the once-bleak gray Trans Am. 

“Sure. Go ahead.” Ghoul didn’t want to see Poison’s lack of recognition, at his own car, but, Destroya, he couldn’t look away when he saw the awestruck wonder plastered across Poison’s face - in his eyes - when he threw the tarps to the ground. 

“...Beautiful,” Poison muttered, finger tips only lightly brushing the hood of the car. A big puff of dust had gone up when he removed the tarp, but Poison didn’t seem fazed by any of it. “This is mine?”

“Yeah. Everyone knew the graffitied Trans Am was the great Party Poison’s,” Ghoul hummed, and his voice wasn’t bitter. It wasn’t. He had no reason to be bitter. Did he?

He wished Poison would look at him the way he looked at that car, so maybe Ghoul did have a reason to be bitter. And if Poison ever had looked at him like that, then that look, along with Poison’s memories, was long long. 

Bitter, yeah, Ghoul had a right to that. 

“I was quite the catch, huh?” Poison asked quietly, maybe picking up on Ghoul’s mood. Maybe. Who knew with him? 

Ghoul shrugged. Poison? Quite the catch? Oh, he was worse than that - he used to pride himself on that. Poison was a heartbreaker, alright. A revolutionist and a flirt and a heartbreaker and - and a cherry bomb. That’s what Ghoul called him; it was more broad than a crash queen, which everyone else liked to call Poison. “You were my cherry bomb.”

Hesitation flickered across Poison’s face, stopping him from whatever he was doing - in the process of sitting on the Trans Am’s hood, staring at Ghoul, almost taken aback. “Cherry bomb?” he asked meekly. 

“Yeah,” Ghoul frowned at Poison’s sudden hesitation. “Cherry bomb. ‘S what I called you, instead of crash queen.”

Poison was silent for another moment, eyes unfocused, before finally saying, “huh,” and nothing more on the subject.

Unable to think of something else to say - well, anything he could articulate, at least -, and maybe unwilling to say, Ghoul turned back to his work bench. Deadlines, deadlines, certainly not because he didn’t want to look at that too-short red hair.

“Can I, uh - I feel bad for asking this, but is there anything I can eat, or…?” Poison asked awkwardly. Ghoul didn’t turn around to see if he was scrunching up his nose, like he had a tendency to do when he was nervous or confused or awkward about something.

“Power Pup is in the pantry, second shelf on the right,” Ghoul answered, still working on his project. Finish it. He had to, it was more pressing than Poison.

Poison’s footsteps faded out of Ghoul’s range of hearing, presumably to go find out where the pantry even is, and Ghoul couldn’t help it - his shoulders slouched in relief. 

That wasn’t his Poison, but he kept seeing glimpses and flashes of his Poison and he hated it. His Poison was a cocky, flirty bastard - he had an attitude, and he wasn’t afraid to flaunt. This washed-out amnesiac was more...he was concerned, and he was hurt, and he was desperate, and Ghoul could see it all. 

Strip Party Poison of his name, his hair, his mask, and his jacket, and what do you get? You don’t get the same boy. Because that boy will have nothing to hide behind, and that is a Poison that Ghoul isn’t used too. A Poison with nothing to hide - a Poison that can’t hide anything. Like his emotions, 

At some point, Ghoul’s radio crackled to life, Cherri saying something about Kobra Kid and in a few hours, but Ghoul wasn’t listening, not really. Focus on the project at hand, the blue wire and the red wire and - and where was his black wire?

Great. More things he needed to either find or buy more of. 

Giving a huff, Ghoul stood up from his work bench, back sore and even popping as he stretched out the stiffness in his limbs. Who knew how long he’d been sitting there?

He was closer to finishing, though, so that was good news. The guy who’d commissioned it for him had actually given him tarnished, half-stained blueprints which looked like they were drawn in purple crayon (but were strangely accurate to how to actually build a bomb…), but they were unfinished and things like where the detonator would be hadn’t been accounted for, so he was partially developing it on his own - that’s why it was so frustrating, why it was taking him so long. 

In fact, his mind was so preoccupied with ‘finish, finish, finish’ once he’d distracted himself well enough, he’d forgotten all about Poison being in the Diner and Cherri saying something about Kobra.

Yeah, he really wished he would’ve remembered that when he walked into the Diner, his mangy hair in his face, and walked right into Poison’s shoulder.

Poison didn’t move, and Ghoul’s nose hurt, and he was going to complain - and then he saw what was going on, and all the comments he could’ve said burned off his tongue. 

Poison wasn’t moving because he was staring, wide-eyed, at a killjoy across from him, standing behind a bar stool. A killjoy with bleach blond hair, the same starstruck look, a bright red jacket on, and a familiar blue jacket clutched in his hands. 

The silence became unbearable in the split second Ghoul noticed what was happening. 

“...You’re my brother,” Poison said slowly, the words falling hesitantly off his lips. Like he was confused -

-For a second, Ghoul was scared, too, just as much as he could see Kobra was from what little he could see in his expression under his aviators. Did Poison not remember his brother, either?

“I am,” Kobra answered, after another long beat of silence, his words drawn out. He was worried, too. 

Within seconds, the shock settled on Poison’s face disappeared - instead replaced by a smile, a full-blown, light-up-your-entire-face smile, the largest smile Ghoul had ever seen him wear. “You’re okay! You’re okay, they didn’t - they didn’t take you!”

Poison’s voice cracked, and maybe a few tears were slipping out, but Ghoul said nothing. He felt like he was intruding, this was a moment he wasn’t meant to witness. 

It was Poison who surged forward, bumping into the counter corner and simply not caring as he threw his arms around his brother - who seemed just as shocked as Poison about all this, except his shock hadn’t faded yet. Ghoul thought maybe he saw a few tears, there, too, but it wasn’t his place, it really wasn’t with Poison sobbing into his missing brother’s shoulder, and vice versa. 

“Oh, get over here!” Poison sniffled, looking up from Kobra’s shoulder.

Belatedly, Ghoul realized Poison was talking to him, and pointed at himself for clarification. But of course, who else was there?

“Yeah, you! C’mon, Detonator,” Poison smiled at him, eyes watery but brighter than Ghoul had ever seen them before.

A bit awkward, a bit touched, Ghoul ambled over, joining in on the reunion hug of a killjoy who didn’t remember him, and a killjoy who didn’t know him.

_

Later, Ghoul would realize - 

While Poison may have always been Ghoul’s cherry bomb, Poison was the only one to ever call him his Detonator.

**Author's Note:**

> ha ha! you were right ferr, this wasn't as bad as im sure the water fic is but look its HURTFUL and CuTe. thank you kat, for helping me with the nickname (i was DYING), and thank you mars. i don't know why im thanking mars, but they're usually my go-to, so. just thanks. also, thoughts on this train wreck of a side project?


End file.
